But among you are some who do not believe

He was being kind.

Even among those who so eagerly sing

his songs, wear

his shining silver jewellery, don

his tee-shirts, and who grumble

self-righteously that the fabric of society

has been irreparably torn;

there are many of us

who will not allow ourselves to believe.

We do not eat the body;

the blood we do not drink.

The precisely cubed crumb of bread,

the broken wafer,

the fragment torn from a loaf;

the silver chalice,

the cup of wine,

the tiny glass of grape juice,

hygienically prepared, red and sweet;

these safe things we will consume

in neat and reassuring patterns.

We fear the bread that is his words,

irregular, wild and costly;

having nibbled at the edge

we shall leave it our plates.

The cup of his outpouring;

we sipped cautiously, tasted the bitter draught

and determinedly placed it to one side.

His difficult words invite us to dine upon him,

to take life deep within our own;

and allow his being to be woven into ours.

Thus we receive his generous life,

crimson with sorrow, love and weeping.

Take courage; eat and drink, he whispers

once more.

© Ken Rookes 2012

I’ve been travelling, and am getting back into my regular pattern. I welcome your comments.

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